


Aftermath

by ValBirch



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Dad!Hopper, F/M, Found Family Feels, Minor Violence, Snapshots through the years, flangst, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 16:18:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13057620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValBirch/pseuds/ValBirch
Summary: After everything, El has one more monster to deal with.





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This was originally posted in three parts on Tumblr, but I was encouraged to post it here as well, so I decided to just throw it into a single chapter.

I.

It’s February when El finally works up the nerve to talk about Chicago, a light snow falling outside the cabin, dusting the branches of the evergreens that brush against her bedroom window.

Inside, under the dim yellowish light of a single uncovered bulb, El remains snug in her blankets. Jim, in the chair he’s pulled up next to her, reads aloud, encouraging her to try some of the shorter paragraphs herself, as he does every evening. 

Just as he closes their book—one of the  _Boxcar Children_  stories that Max sent over the week before—El asks quietly if she can tell him about her journey away from Hawkins and back home again. 

After Jim’s encouraging nod, his promise that she can tell him anything, anytime, ever, El begins. She struggles, sometimes with the weight of her feelings and other times with finding the word she think fits best, but she tells Jim everything—about the bright lights and crowded streets, the dingy alleyways and graffitied warehouse. She recounts the story of sharpening her powers in the train yard and the nervous thrill of her makeover. And he listens, teeth clenched, throat tight, as she whispers through the details of her gas station robbery and her nearly killing the man who hurt her Mama. 

When she’s finished her stories, her hands are trembling, hot tears leaking down her cheeks. Her voice is shaky, her nose leaking, but Jim resists the urge to go grab the tissues in the washroom, not wanting to leave her alone for a single second. 

When she finally looks up at him, her eyes are wide with worry. “In trouble?” she whispers, voice cracking.

It’s a question that catches Jim off guard, makes him release the tension he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in his balled up fists. “No kid,” he shakes his head, trying to convince her. “You’re not in trouble.” His eyes close briefly, El’s stories weighing heavily on his mind, guilt clawing its ugly way into his heart, icy regret saturating his lungs. He could have protected her. He could have stopped…

“Jim?” 

“Yeah, El?” 

“What if Papa comes back?”

Jim frowns, at a loss for words. He thinks about telling her that the bastard is never coming back, but he knows that might not be true. They never found a body and he’s certain there’s a reason Owens wants her to remain cooped up here for another year. 

“The man,” El continues faintly, “That man said Papa is alive. And—” She pauses, hesitant. 

“El?” Jim presses her gently, realizing with a sinking feeling that, after everything she’s already told him, there’s more left unsaid. 

“Kali made me see Papa.” It’s obvious how frightened she is, how she shrinks just speaking about him, how small her voice sounds. Jim feels ire run through his veins, his fingers twitching in his lap, in that moment unsure if he’s angrier at El’s broken teenage sister or the man who broke her. 

“I was scared,” El sputters, “ _Still_  so scared.” A fresh wave of tears falls from her eyes. She moves to rub them away with the sleeve of her pyjamas, but Jim gets there first, gently brushing them away with the cuff of his flannel. 

“If he comes back,” Hopper begins, then he pauses, unsure what to say. “I won’t let him take you. He’s never going to touch you, ever again.” 

“P-promise?” 

“I promise, El.” Jim leans down and places a quick kiss on the top of her head. “Want me to grab my sleeping bag and spend the night in here?” It’s something he hasn’t done for several months, not since he first brought her to the cabin and she’d wake up nearly every hour, eyes wide, chest heaving with terror. 

Now she nods, drawing the blankets up closer to her chin, sinking into her pillows. “I don’t want to kill anymore.” Her voice is weak and tired, more weary than any child’s voice should be and Jim feels his heart cracking open, spilling for this broken little girl—his little girl. “I want to be good.” 

Jim sighs, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re already good, El. You’re so good.” He kisses her forehead as he stands, already thinking ahead to the chocolate milk he’s going to bring back with his sleeping bag and El’s favourite teddy bear, still on the sofa from their movie marathon that afternoon. 

As Jim leaves the room, casting one last, long glance at El—his daughter—he runs his tongue over his teeth, swallowing the primal anger and fear that bubble deep in his stomach. 

_Let that son of a bitch come back. I’ll kill him with my own two hands._

* * *

II.

The phone rings shortly after noon, just as Jim’s about enjoy a bite into the greasy cheeseburger Harrington brought back to the station for lunch. It’s Line 3, the private line he set up sometime in early ‘85, the number known only by the small handful of people closest to him. 

Jim picks up the phone, a deadpan expression already on his face. He fully expects that it’s El calling. She knows the line is for emergencies only, but that doesn’t stop his sixteen-year-old daughter from routinely phoning to ask if he’ll pick up ice cream and pizza on his way home, insisting that it  _totally_ qualifies as an emergency because Joyce burnt dinner again. 

But it’s not El’s voice that sounds in his ear when he says hello. It’s Will’s, and he’s out of breath, his words short and hurried. 

“Hop, it’s him. He came to the house.” 

The leering face of a man with white hair flashes across Jim’s memories, twisting his stomach. He’s always been afraid of this day, but he’d always also kept a spark of hope alive, as the days progressed to months to years, that this day would never come. Jim feels, intensely, that spark all at once extinguished in his chest.

“Where’s El?” 

P _lease let her be at the Wheelers’, cuddled up next to Mike. Please let her be with Max at the arcade. Please let her be anyway but there._  

“She forced me out of the house.” Will is obviously crying, desperation in his voice. “She locked me out and I just ran to—“ 

“Will,” Jim speaks firmly despite his hand shaking as he grips the receiver. “I’m going there now. You stay where you are. Do  _not_  go near that house, understood?” He hangs up before Will can reply, hoping the kid will listen and not try to play the damn hero. 

* * *

Jim doesn’t know how he gets home so quickly, but it must have something to do with the siren on his cruiser, a few jumped curbs, and the flattened mailbox out front in the yard. Joyce’s car is missing from the driveway—she’s working today, thank god—and in its place is a familiarly unfamiliar black SUV that sends fear and anger coursing through Jim’s veins.

As he slips out the car, there are flashbacks in his mind, from his days in the Indianapolis PD. Hostage situations, early morning raids—moments like this but so different. Inside that house is his daughter and the man who would try to take her away from him, from Joyce, from the family they built out of nothing. 

He uses the back door—the front creaks—going around corners slowly, but there’s no need. He can hear the bastard’s voice coming from the living room, its cadence soft and lulling. It makes Jim sick, but he’s thankful Brenner’s alone. It’ll be easier that way. When he rounds the corner from the kitchen, he catches sight of them. 

El’s backed into the far corner, crouched low like a frightened animal. Her eyes are closed, her face red and tear-streaked, her fists balled together. Everything in the living room is floating two feet off the ground, the lights going haywire, buzzing overhead. Brenner is bent over her, his hand extended, coaxing her forward.

Jim doesn’t stop to listen to what he’s telling her. He doesn’t stop to think. He doesn’t stop to take a moment and heroically announce his presence or give Brenner the time to react. His hand is on his gun, firing once, twice, three times into the man’s back. 

As the gunshots rip through the air, El’s eyes fly open, her arm pushed out in front of her, hand open to defend herself. But her face softens when she sees him and the heavy book that she was hurling in his direction stops an inch short of his head. Everything in the room falls to the floor—the lamps, the books, the sofa. Brenner. 

Slowly, as the lights settle, El stumbles to her feet, staring at Brenner’s lifeless body on the floor in front of her, face unreadable. 

Jim is staring too, stunned, somehow angry and relieved at the same time, not an ounce of guilt in him and not at all worried by that. He’s rooted to the ground, waiting for El to make the first move. 

“Dad.” Her voice is choked as she looks up at him, carefully stepping forward, her knees shaking as though she’s about to crumble.

Jim is by her side in a moment, scooping her into his arms as she sinks to the floor, sobbing into his chest. He falls with her, allowing her to use him as a shield, a blanket, a tissue, a rock. 

“It’s okay, Ellie,” he whispers, using the pet name only he’s allowed to call her. “It’s over now.” 

* * *

III. 

Rubbing his eyes, Mike Wheeler looks down at the textbook spread open across his desk, all the words on the page running together into an unwieldy blob of text. It’s nearly one in the morning and he’s still awake, studying for his senior biology final—only three days away now, and absolutely crucial to securing a scholarship for the following year. 

He’s so exhausted that, at first, he thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees her—El standing by his bed, her face weary and her eyes puffy, as though she’s been crying. 

“Mike?” 

He blinks, the anxious tone of her voice jolting him fully awake as he pushes away from his desk and approaches her. Mike notices that she’s wearing the sweater she stole out of his closet earlier that day and it dawns on him, all at once, that El is actually there—projecting herself through the void to talk with him. It’s something she’s gotten good at over the years, something she’s taught him to see and feel and communicate with, though Doc Owens says it’s only possible because they’re  _connected._

“El, where are you?” Mike keeps his voice low, afraid of waking Holly up in the room next door. She looks so deeply troubled that he’s tempted to reach out and touch her, but he resists, tucking his hands into the pockets of his plaid pyjama bottoms to stop himself. He knows if he makes contact she’ll go up in smoke, disappear. 

“I need you to come get me,” she says, quiet and hurried, “Please.” 

“Where?” Mike repeats his question, anxiety building in his chest. “Are you safe?”

“Yes. In Chicago.” Before he can open his mouth to express his incredulity, El closes her eyes and Mike sees—feels, maybe, he’s still not sure  _how_  it works, only that it does—her path in his head, sees the dimly lit street corner and the  small, rundown diner where she’s huddled in the corner of the bathroom to talk to him. 

“El—”

“Please, Mike.” 

“I’m on my way.

Mike doesn’t even bother changing into a proper pair of pants, throwing a sweatshirt on over his Batman tee and scrawling a note for his mother. He slides it onto the kitchen counter where he’s certain she’ll see it as she makes Holly’s breakfast in the morning.  _Went to Dustin’s for textbook. Sleeping there. Be home after school tomorrow. Love, Mike._

He’s never driven this far in his life and even though he knows his mom will kill him for a speeding ticket toward Chicago in the middle of the night, Mike doesn’t care, foot heavy on the gas pedal. 

He needs to get to El.  

* * *

The diner is nearly empty by the time he gets there, circling the block three times before giving up and parking illegally. There’s a distracted-looking old woman seated by the window sipping coffee and, over at the counter on a faded barstool, El is perched, an oversized denim jacket draped over her shoulders.

“It’s the cook’s,” El explains as Mike sits down beside her, giving her a quizzical look. He almost smiles at the way her feet dangle over the floor, but they’re swinging back and forth nervously and she’s keeping her eyes fixed on the scratched red surface of the counter, her fingers tapping out a nervous beat. “And the waitress gave me apple pie.”

“Does Hop even know you’re here?” He tries to keep the hard, sharp edge from his voice, biting his tongue when he fails. 

El remains quiet and Mike puts his head in his hands, groaning. “Okay, where does he  _think_  you are?” 

“He’s working overnight,” El replies after a long beat of silence, “He thinks I’m at home.” 

“El, are you kidding me?” Mike raises his voice, his shoulders squaring. “He’s going to panic if he realizes you’re gone!” He can feel ire rising in his throat, desperately trying to press it back down. He hates being mad at El and feels ill on those rare occasions when their tempers flare and collide. 

“I’m so mad at myself, Mike,” she whispers, scraping her fork over the leftover pie crumbs scattered across her plate. “He was so desperate that day. No one saw that look in his eyes. Like he would have done anything to take me back. He told me,” she pauses, swallowing heavily, “He told me I would eventually kill you all. That I’m dangerous. But I  _wouldn’t_ kill him. Does that make me weak?”

“Is that what this is about?” Mike asks, licking his lips, voice low again as his anger wanes. “El, you’re not weak. You’re the strongest p—”

“I wanted to,” she continues, ignoring him. Mike senses that she’s had this on her mind for a while, maybe for the entire year that Brenner’s been dead, and suddenly feels like a Grade-A asshole—he’d believed her when she said that she was healing, that she was okay, and friends don’t lie, but he should have realized that sometimes they stretch the truth. 

“I wanted to break his neck and watch him bleed,” El goes on so quietly that Mike can barely hear her. “I wanted to break him into a million pieces and make him suffer. But Mike, I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want him to die thinking he was right. That he  _won_.  I’m not a weapon. I’m not a monster.”

“I know,” Mike nods, his anger melting away. Gently he places his hand on the small of her back, tucking it under the denim of her borrowed jacket, drawing circles over her sweater. “I know.”

“I told my dad that once,” she says, “I told him I never wanted to kill again.” She pauses, biting her quivering lip. “Do you think he feels guilty?” 

“About killing Br—him?” Mike’s eyes grow wide, “No way, El. That asshole had it coming and we would  _all_  have done the same thing. If I had been there, I’d have ripped him apart with my hands if I had to. Will would have done the same—if you didn’t lock him out. Lucas, Dustin, Max,  _all_  of us, El.” He punctuates each word, hoping to convince her. 

El nods slowly and descends into deep silence, her face still troubled, brows knitted together. Mike decides to ask the question he’s been meaning to; the one he already knows the answer to. 

“Why’d you come here El? Was it to see Kali?”

She nods again, mutely, eyes closing in defeat. Mike shifts his stool closer to hers, pulling her in to lean against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

“And?”

“She’s—she called me weak for not doing it myself. I think she’s mad she didn’t get to him first.”

“You didn’t need to come,” Mike whispers. 

“I felt like I should tell her. I felt like if she knew, she’d be okay again.”

“You can’t save everyone, El. I mean, you saved the entire world like…three times, but still.” 

El looks up at him, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I know, but I had to try.” 

Mike nods his understanding, watching as she tries—and fails—to stifle a yawn. 

“Let’s go home,” he tells her, “I’ll give you a piggyback ride to the car.” 

Mike pulls out his wallet and slides five dollars onto the counter, bending his knees so El can boost herself onto her back. As they walk out into the cool autumn night, her breath is warm on the back of his neck as she whispers against his skin. “I love you, Mike.” 


End file.
